


Doll Parts

by bigfeetbiggersocks



Series: the pieces of jennifer's body [3]
Category: The Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Jennifer's body au, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28665207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigfeetbiggersocks/pseuds/bigfeetbiggersocks
Summary: When David goes on a murder spree following his demonic possession Michael is forced to kill him. The action leaves him wracked with guilt and in a moment of pure desperation Michael attempts to use occult magick to revive his friend. It works, and David gains a third chance at life, though something is wrong. This isn't David.
Relationships: David/Michael Emerson (Lost Boys), Michael Emerson/Star (Lost Boys)
Series: the pieces of jennifer's body [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110191
Comments: 20
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greatkateweathermachine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatkateweathermachine/gifts).



> hey everyone I'm back !! kate (@greatkateweathermachine on tumblr) and I recently came up with a jennifer's body au for tlb and I fell in love w it instantly so I had to write something for it. kate was the one who originally came up with the idea for the alternate ending where no one catches michael killing david so credit to abba for being so massive brained. ik this might be kind of a niche crossover but I'm having a lot of fun writing it so I hope you guys will enjoy it too:)

Michael's knuckles are white and his hands are shaking, and he's sure that if he moves away from David he'll notice ten purple bruises in the shape of his fingerprints staining David's skin. He doesn't move away though, clutching tightly to the stiff jaw and still body of the person beneath him. If he clothes his eyes, really squeezes them shut, he can almost hear David's heartbeat, ticking like a clock in the back of his mind. He can pretend that the warm spot between their flushed chests didn't exist, that no blood had ever been spilled and no lives had ever been taken. He can act like it's a normal sleepover for the two them, the kind where they'd stay up too late and whisper back and forth about stupid things, their legs tangled together and their fingers interlocked. 

This isn't a normal sleepover, though, and David isn't going to make some snide remark about what one of the cheerleaders wore to school that day. He's dead, a shallow "x" in his stomach, and a gaping hole in his heart. Michael draws him in closer and buries his face in his hair, one hand still cupping David's jaw. He can feel tears building up in the corner of his eyes but he wills them away before any can fall, the guilt of crying over a murderer, over a demon, too much to bear. 

When Michael pulls away, lingering near enough for David's hair to still tickle his nose, he's met with a pair of dull eyes staring not at him, but past him, peering into some deep part of his soul. His breath hitches at the sight, David's once bright and beautiful eyes now colorless and unmoving, and his lip trembles slightly. He brings out hand up to David's face and shuts his eyes for him, hoping that maybe the action will grant him some rest. 

He slides one hand down David's arm, taking note of the bare skin. He's so used to seeing David wrapped in that familiar jacket, a faded pink puffer that he's had since middle school. He remembers how David used to wrap himself in it whenever he was nervous, or cold, and up until recently it was a permanent fixture on David's body. Michael thinks he looks almost naked without it.

Michael shifts on the bed, giving David's arm a gentle squeeze before pulling away and moving towards the closet. He opens it and finds piles upon piles of clothes he doesn't recognize. 

He pushes past them, knocking over the piles in the process, but he doesn't particularly care. He feels like he's functioning on auto-pilot, and his only goal is finding this coat. 

He digs and digs, and then he finds it. There, slumped against the corner of his closet, is David's favorite jacket. He picks it up, returning to his spot on the bed, and begins to wrap David up in it. It's been so long since Michael's seen him in the jacket and the sight makes him feel sore inside. David loved this stupid jacket, hell, he practically lived in it, and its absence felt like a major changing point for him. He started shedding his old skin and becoming someone entirely new, a hollowed out version of his old self wrapped in trendy shirts and perfectly styled hair. The thought of it makes Michael queasy. 

He takes a moment to look at David again, subconsciously avoiding his chest and stomach. He feels compelled to be closer to him again, to hold him close, to take him away and bring him someplace they can be alone together. 

He hooks one arm under David's shoulder blades and places the other one at the bend of David's knees. He lifts him up just a couple of centimeters, holding him above the sheets for a second before placing both feet on the floor and sliding off of the bed, David still in his arms.

David's lighter than he remembers, likely thinner, and the thought makes Michael clutch him even tighter. He can feel David's bones poking him through his skin, barely more than a skeleton in his grasp. 

Michael bites his lip and makes his way down the hall and through the backdoor, pausing when he reaches the backyard. 

It's raining slightly, and he can hear every drop as it hits the pavement. He can hear the cicadas singing too, a buzzing sound in the background of it all. He's hyper-aware of everything all of a sudden and it's just too much. The repeated humming of the cicadas and the harsh pitter-patter of the rain are mixing together in the most unbearable way. It's like TV static turned up to max volume, and it weasels its way into the back of Michael's brain, gnawing away at it. He feels so overwhelmed yet so empty, and even though he wants to bolt back inside and escape the noise so badly, the weight of David against his chest keeps him standing there.

He takes a few hesitant steps forward until he reaches the center of the yard and takes a deep breath before lowering to his knees. He places David's body on the ground in front him, sliding the hand that was supporting his shoulder up to his head, cradling it. He can't seem to let go of him just yet, to sever that last point of contact between them. This is his best friend, his other half, the person who knew everything about him and more, or at least it was. 

He closes his eyes and brings his other hand to rest just below the center of David's chest, careful to avoid his wound. He presses the heel of his hand against him, hard, searching for a heartbeat he knows he won't find. He feels nothing, as expected, and it makes the ache in his lungs only grow stronger. 

The rain begins to get heavier, more intense, and the sound of thunder pulls his attention away from David. 

The sky is a dark and murky gray, and Michael watches as it flashes yellow from a stray bolt of lightning. He takes a deep breath before returning his gaze to David's face, watching the shadows dance over his features. He can hear another crack of thunder from somewhere behind them but this time he doesn't particularly care. It's fading into the background noise now, becoming one with the static nipping away at the corners of Michael's mind. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for it to fully settle back there. 

He slides his arms back underneath David's body, lifting him so that he's being carried bridal style yet again. He keeps David a little closer to him now though, and the feeling of David's cheek against his chest lights him on fire. It's the only sensation his body can seem to focus on, but he tries his best to ignore it, focusing on what he's doing and where he's going instead.

He takes a step forward. And another. And another. And another. Maybe if he thinks about this as a one-two-one-two motion it'll be easier for him. He just has to keep trudging forward until he gets there. One foot after the other until he reaches the clearing in the center of the woods. One foot after the-

He stops at the fence gate, staring at the lock for a second. It's rusted over, likely from lack of use, and Michael tries to recall the last time he's seen anyone go past the yard and into the woods. He comes up empty handed and reasons that the lock is probably old enough and weak enough to break if he strikes it. He shifts David in his arms, using the weight of his chest to keep him upright, and bends down to pick up a nearby rock with his free hand. He smacks it hard against the lock twice before watching the metal split and the two halves fall to the ground. He pushes the gate open and adjusts his grip on David.

It's even muddier back here, and the wet leaves of the low hanging branches press solemn kisses against Michael's skin as he continues down the path. He doesn't mind though, and the actual feeling of it barely registers. His brain has zeroed in on the motion of moving forward, of lifting up each foot and placing it ahead of him. He's going to make it there. He's going to reach the clearing. He's going to do it.

And he does. Before he knows it he's standing in the center of a small clearing, an area Michael recognizes from playing here with David as kids. He kneels and places David down gently, crossing his arms over his chest. He lines David's left palm up with the hole in his chest, placing his own over top of it for a brief moment. 

Michael pauses, focusing all of the little energy he has left on remembering the steps of this ritual. 

Page thirty-six of Witchcraft and the Occult: A Guide to Demons, Magick, and More contained a ritual on how to revive the dead, and while Michael definitely thought it was a bit ridiculous at the time, he's certainly grateful for having read it now. 

The steps start coming back to him, one at a time, and Michael slowly but surely begins to enact them. He picks a bouquet of nearby flowers, little pink ones that he never learned the name of, and tucks them under David's crossed arms. There's a Latin saying that's supposed to come next, and Michael tries his best to recite it accurately, the words coming out rough and shaky. It sounds like he hasn't spoken aloud in years. 

The next step involves an offering of his own blood. 

Micheal digs through his pockets for a moment, searching for any semblance of a sharp object. He eventually finds the pocket knife he'd brought as a backup weapon in case David managed to get ahold of the box cutter. It feels heavy in his hand but he removes it anyway, opening the knife and lining the tip up with the top left corner of his hand. 

He slices downward, the action slower and more drawn out than it needs to be, but whatever primal part of him currently has control is determined to inflict as much pain upon himself as possible. It wants him to hurt, to suffer for what he's done.

Michael's hand hovers above the bouquet of flowers and he watches as the rain mixes with his blood before falling onto the flowers, staining them a rather ugly shade of red. 

He draws the outline of a pentacle over David's body to finish the ritual and stands up. He keeps his eyes focused on David for a couple more moments, and it isn't until he finally starts to feel the harsh bite of the wind that he decides to head home. 

He presses a kiss to the tip of his fingers and touches them to David's forehead. The skin there is cold now, and Michael doesn't linger very long. 

"Goodbye, David." he says, and he turns on his heel, ready to start the long trek home.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael wakes up around noon the next day with a pounding headache. He groans, the small slivers of light that peak in from between the blinds already too much for him. He turns over, burying his face in his pillow and lays there for a couple long minutes.

Part of him is waiting for his brother to come bursting through the door and drag his ass awake. Sam would shake his shoulder and whisper-yell in his ear until Michael eventually acknowledged him, then he'd grab at Michael's wrists, happy that he's awake, and pull him out of bed. 

His wrists have never felt so cold. 

He sighs, accepting that he's going to be waking up alone today, and slides out of bed. He tries not to think too hard about Sam's absence as opens his door and makes his way down the hall, purposefully keeping his gaze pointed forward. He doesn't know if he can handle seeing the brightly colored 'SAM' sprawled across his brother's bedroom door right now. He closes his eyes as he passes it, holding his breath and doing his best to ignore its presence besides him.

The journey towards the kitchen is unnaturally quiet, the lack of laughter and music almost unsettling. Michael opts to turn on the radio and pretend everything is at least a little bit normal. 

The quiet sound of 1901 drifts through the kitchen. It's light and comforting at first, but it isn't long before the notes weasel their way in through Michael's ears and begin gnawing at his brain. 

The tune of his mother's favorite song sounds warped now, like a record that's been played until it started curling up at the edges. The notes are sour, sharp, and Michael practically breaks the power button with how hard he's slamming "off". 

He leans against the counter, feeling the cold weight of it against his lower back. His head is throbbing and his heart feels heavy and his lungs are way too full. 

He brings a hand up to his hair, running his fingers through it and fighting the urge to pull. He steadies himself, waiting for his emotions to regain their balance before opening up a cabinet and searching around for a bowl. 

His knuckles brush past the bright blue bowl he's so used to seeing on the table in front of Sam, filled to the brim with Lucky Charms or that gross Reese's cereal that makes Michael gag. He grabs the nearest other bowl, not really looking at which one it is, and slams the cabinet shut. 

If he doesn't think about Sam's absence it can't bother him … right? 

Michael pours the last of the Cheerios into his bowl and drips the remaining bit of milk on top of it. He tosses both of the containers off to the side, making an empty promise to himself to clean them up later. 

He eats in silence, taking slow bites of his cereal, and tries not to glance at the empty seat next to him. He fails, and the well-worn seat cushion appears in his peripheral vision.

"Fuck!"

He drops his glass of water, hands shaking and heart pounding. He bends down to pick it up but it slips out his grasp as soon as he wraps his fingers around it, and it shatters against the ground. There's a couple shards lodged in Michael's hand but he can't bring himself to care. 

He brings his free hand to his face and groans, leaning until he feels the corner of the table dig into his back and sliding down to sit on the floor. 

He spends a couple long minutes there, the blood from his hand starting to stain his clothes. It's the second pair of pants he'll have to throw out within twenty-four hours of each other. 

Third, if you count his pants from the winter formal.

He sighs, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against the table's legs. He finds the throbbing oddly comforting now, like drumming in the background of his mind, the rhythm of it in tune with his own heartbeat. 

He's tempted to lean further into the feeling, to chase the painful music, but a loud crash in the distance interrupts his thoughts. 

Michael stands up, startled, and makes his way towards the hall. As far as he can tell nothing in it has been knocked down, but maybe the noise came from inside one of the rooms.

Shit. There it is again. 

Just as Michael's about to turn around and investigate the sound he feels two hands grab hold of shoulders. They push him back against the wall, their nails digging into his skin. His head slams into a picture frame and he hears it fall and shatter behind him. He hopes it isn't a photo of Sam. 

There's a cold breath ghosting over his lips, and the feeling of it coaxes his eyes open. 

It's David. 

Micheal hates how familiar this is. Hates how well he knows this bloody smirk. Hates how he's been in this exact position before, except that last time they were in his kitchen. 

David leans in closer, tilting his head so that his lips were brushing Michael's earlobe. He laughs, and it sounds sharp and hollow in a way that sends shivers up Michael's spine. He's never sounded like this before, not even when he was possessed. 

"Miss me?" He's laughing again as Michael takes hold of David's own shoulders, shoving him backwards until they slam into the other wall. David's nails dig deeper into Michael's skin and his smirk grows wider. 

"You don't seem happy to see me, Michael. I thought you wanted me back?" He surges forward, headbutting Michael so hard that he's sent stumbling. The throbbing in his head is less of an ache now and more of a loud, angry screaming. 

"You're not my David." 

He hears that stupid laugh again and the sound of it makes his hands curl into fists, so tight that he can feel them shake. 

"Well, I sure feel like your David." He takes a step closer, and Michael can see the emptiness in his eyes. He forces his gaze to stay focused on David's eyes, resisting the urge to drift lower and take in the sight of red around his lips.

"I talk like your David." He brings up a hand up to Michael's face, his fingers curling around Michael's jaw, cupping it gently. 

"I walk like your David." He shifts, bringing their noses together. Michael resists the urge to lean in and meet him in the middle. This isn't David. This isn't David. This isn't David.

"I'm pretty confident that I am your David." His grip turns harsh, and he uses it to pull Michael even closer. His nails are so embedded in his skin now that Michael thinks he might be drawing blood.

He smirk falls into a snarl, and his brows begin to furrow. 

He looks like he's about to say something, maybe spit in Michael's face and chastise him on his lack of a warm welcome, but he ultimately decides not to. Instead David lets go of Michael completely and takes a couple steps away from him, his expression uncharacteristically blank. 

He winks once, blowing Michael a short and mocking kiss, before turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall.


	3. Chapter 3

Michael isn't sure how long he's been sitting there, but his legs have gone numb and his ear has become sore from being pressed against the wall. The jagged edges of the shattered glass press up against his ankles, sharp and irritating, but not close enough to draw blood. 

He doesn't bother kicking it away before standing up, letting it slice his skin as he rises. The pain is dull and subtle, existing only in the back of his mind, so it's fairly easy for him to ignore. Michael's been ignoring a lot of things lately. 

He makes his way towards the living room, his legs moving faster than his thoughts. He picks up the phone, typing in a number he knows all too well before putting the receiver up to his ear and waiting. He takes a deep and curls the cord around his finger as it rings. 

"Hello?"

"Hey Star, it's me."

He can hear her sigh on the other end of the phone, and if he closes his eyes he could probably picture her pinching the bridge of her with her thumb and forefinger too, the way she always does whenever she's frustrated. 

"I thought we stopped talking. We broke up."

He coils the phone cord tighter around his hand. 

"Yeah, I know, but could you maybe come over? I need to talk to someone, and you're still my friend."

She pauses, and Michael can feel the silence gripping his throat, keeping him from breathing. 

"Okay. Sure. But you actually have to talk to me this time, alright? You can't just keep dancing around whatever's wrong when I ask you about it."

"Yeah, I get that."

"Okay. I'll be right over." The line goes dead, and Michael hangs the phone back up. There's faint red marks around his knuckles and wrist from the cord, but they're nothing too severe. 

He takes a seat in the nearest chair and tries not to think about how it was Sam's favorite. If he focuses hard enough on willing the memories away he can pretend not to remember the way Sam used to lay across it after school, hooking his ankles over the side and letting his head hang over the other end as he recited whatever had happened to him that day. He can pretend this is just a chair, and nothing else. He can pretend for however long it takes for Star to arrive and when she leaves he can pretend some more. 

Luckily for him it doesn't take Star long to get here, and he practically runs to the door once he hears the doorbell ring. 

"Hey." 

"Hey." she replies, but she makes no move to enter the house. Instead, she just continues standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and her lips pulled downwards. She almost looks disappointed, and there's definitely a hint of pity in her eyes. Michael decides to ignore that too. 

He shifts to the side and motions towards the living room with his head, hoping she'll get the message. She does, and finally takes a couple steps inside, but she doesn't go any further than the coat rack, lingering in the corner. 

She opens her mouth like she's going to ask him something but stops when her eyes drift downwards, gaze settling on the scratches adorning his jaw.

"Oh my god. What happened?" She steps forward and raises her hand as if to touch the marks, but stops before her fingers can make contact, returning her hand back to her side. She furrows her brows and tilts her head to the side before asking another question. "What'd you do?"

Michael brings his own hand to his jaw, running his fingers over the raised lines. There's no blood, thankfully, but he was hoping David hadn't left any visible marks. 

"It's nothing."

"Michael, that's bullshit and you know it." She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath. "You promised me you'd tell me the truth."

He says nothing. 

"I can't help you if you won't talk to me. Michael, please." 

She takes his hand in her own, lacing their fingers together. It feels both familiar and foreign, and the weight of it is almost too much for him.

"It was David. He's back, kind of."

"What are you talking about? He didn't go anywhere." 

"No, he didn't go anywhere. He just died, again, but not really, because he's back. He's here still. Not here here, but like alive here, you know? He's still alive and I think the demon's still with him, because there's no way normal David would attack me like that."

Star tightens her grip on his hand, and she shoves the other one into her jacket pocket. 

"David attacked you?"

"No! No, he didn't. The demon did, but the demon's sharing a body with David so David's body attacked me, but David wasn't the one using it."

Star lets go of his hand and takes a step back. She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't seem to know what, so Michael continues. 

"David didn't do this. David wouldn't do this. I know you don't like him but he wasn't the one that hurt me, that thing inside him was."

"You're not making any sense, Michael. I need you to calm down." She places her hand back on top of his, but makes no attempt to lace their fingers together again. "We can talk after you relax a little." 

Michael flips his hand over and presses their palms together, letting himself feel the warmth of her skin against his. He takes a couple of deep breaths and steadies himself, looking Star directly in the eyes. 

"I'm sorry." he says, his voice suddenly quiet. 

She smiles at him, gentle and understanding, and the tone of her voice drops to match his. 

"I know. But that's not why I'm here right now." She slides her hand upwards and gives his upper arm a squeeze. "What the hell happened with David?" 

"It's a long story. I know you don't wanna hear about demon shit, but that's kind of a major part of it all." 

"No, no, it's okay. I'll listen to the demon shit."

She smiles again, though it's much stiffer than the last time. Her grip on Michael's arm tightens slightly with it. 

"Star really, I don't wanna tell you if you're gonna think I'm crazy again. It's a-" 

He pauses, and the tension from before starts to creep back into the silence.

"It's a what?" 

He shakes his head and moves away from her, letting her hand slide down his arm until it's left hanging alone in the empty space between them. 

"Don't worry about it. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am crazy."

"Michael." 

'"Don't. Please." He runs a hand through his hair, tangling his fingers in it and tugging just a little. "I shouldn't have called you. We broke up." 

"Michael, come on. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be." 

He says nothing, shaking his head again.

"Michael, please. I hate seeing you like this."

She reaches back out, slow and cautious in her movement, waiting to see if Michael would let her touch him. He does, and she links both of his hands with her own, holding him in place. 

"I know Sam's death must be hard on you."

"This isn't about him." 

She squeezes his hands and closes her eyes, seemingly searching for what to say. She doesn't have to though, because a loud bang interrupts them.

"David." Michael gasps, letting go of Star's hands and rushing towards the source of the noise, the backyard. 

"Michael, wait!" Star runs after him, sliding past the kitchen chairs and ducking into the alcove until she's face to face with the open door.

She has to stand on the tips of her toes and peak over Michael's shoulder in order to see but once she does she regrets it instantly. the 

There, standing in the middle of Michael's yard, is David. His eyes are glossy and his shoulders are hunched forward, but the first thing she notices about him is that he's absolutely covered in blood.


End file.
